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“Oysters?” Another nod.
“Avocadoes? Black olives? Beet salad?”
“I literally like everything. I’ve never met a food I didn’t like. What about you?” I ask. I doubt that I'll have anything to do with his food preparation, but I guess it's probably helpful to know what my future husband likes to eat.
“I like Italian food with ingredients I trust and food I cook myself. I like most foods but hate processed shit.”
"So no gas station burritos for you. Shame. They have a certainpiquancy.”
I swear he almost smiles. Almost.
Not that I care. I'm not trying to make him smile.
I don't say anything else as he orders us food, but I do feel a little surprised that he has this spread on the plane. Antipasto, tossed salad, small bowls of Italian wedding soup, followed by little slices of filet mignon, roasted potatoes, and grilled asparagus.
"This is pretty impressive for plane food."
"I am a very particular guy when it comes to food."
Now that I can deal with. I love good food.
“My brothers don’t just love good food. They loveanykind of food. It isn’t a holiday in my house until a fistfight breaks out over the last cannoli.”
He doesn’t respond. I hate when that happens. You tell someone something and it’s just… crickets.
Still, I’m starving, and the food is delicious, so instead of small talk I work on eating. I nearly lick my plate clean.
"Good girl," he says approvingly, though he’s not looking at me but at his phone. "I like."
I'm not really sure what he likes about me eating a lot of food. But whatever. Fine with me.
“Continue your good behavior, I may even let you have dessert.”
Is he joking? Or does he really mean that the dessert is a reward that I earn?
We’ll see about that.
I don't know exactly how much control he's going to wish he had over me. I don't really know how much control he's going to insist he has over me.
But I’ve got a say in this, too. I’ll just bide my time.
"I definitely like dessert," I say. “One might say it’s my favorite part of a meal.”
"Let me guess. You never met a dessert you didn't like, either," he says. This time I get an actual smile. Brief, like the slightest flash of sun when clouds part only to be covered by the next burst of clouds, but it's there.
"Bingo."
"In Florida, we're famous for our key lime pie. Have you ever had it?"
I shake my head. “Hmm. No, we usually eat Italian desserts. My Nonna…” I pause, because to my surprise my throat begins to close. I feel tears prick my eyes, but I will not give him the satisfaction of my tears. If he notices my delay, he doesn't say anything. I quickly recover.
"Nonna makes the best desserts. It’s her specialty. Torta Caprese, panna cotta, tiramisu. And I love my brothers’ cannoli.” My voice does catch at the end. I miss them already. I look away so he doesn’t see my eyes welling with tears.
Thankfully, he isn’t looking at me at all.
“So if there's no food you don't like," he says, “do you have any favorites?"
"Of course."
